The Instinct of Reason
by necata
Summary: For one so passionately devoted to Reason, Hermione's discovery of Passion-that force of balance and destruction-may result in the death of who she is, and the creation of the woman she is to become.
1. Chapter 1

Set during GoF, just a bit of fun. Not JK, but I hope you enjoy.

The dormitory door slammed open, then snapped shut as she pressed her whole body against it. She turned her head to touch the cold, ancient wood that had been worn soft by so many hands. The fire in her cheeks burned steadily, heating her body with its glow. Her throat wanted to express this feeling, her stomach glowed with it, but she could only giggle breathily, surprised at how giddy she sounded. Her brain was fuzzy, filled only with the memory of his long-fingered hand next to hers, then examining her handiwork. His fingers smoothed the fine, even stitches that had taken her so long to master. He had said they were like his mother's, had gestured to his sweater with the beautifully rendered **P **on his chest. She knew she wasn't nearly that good, that he was being kind, but his praise was…she giggled again and pushed off the door, plunging into her bed past the thick hanging curtains. High. He was going places, she knew, and he could recognize talent. She reminded herself that it was her knitting, after all, and not her house-elfitarian initiative that he was complimenting. Still, he hadn't poked fun at her, like Ron, or gave a poor attempt at being supportive, like Harry. She knew they thought she was too ambitious, too proud, too passionate. She embarrassed them, though they tolerated her enough so that she would help them write their essays. Sometimes she wished she could hide it, be like other girls who channeled their passion and ambition into landing a good boyfriend and having the best hair. Hair. Hermione pressed her dry, frizzy mass to her head, trying to block out the feelings of inadequacy that threatened to dash her pleasant mood, and only managed to remind herself of one of her greatest sources for self-loathing; her bushy mass of dirt-colored dead cells.

For the second time that evening, the door to the dormitory was thrown open, and the dark room was suddenly filled with light and loud laughter. Lavender Brown and Padma Patil tumbled through the doorway, clutching each other's arms and howling. Hermione sat up, her thoughts disturbed by their noise.

"God, Jan Evingsby is a bloody _Hufflepuff_, and she's panting all over the place, sweating—"

Padma snorted, "Thinking she has a chance in hell. It's really pathetic, and then she fell—oh!"

They had finally noticed Hermione, who was now sitting at the edge of her bed.

"What's pathetic?" she asked, then wished she hadn't. After pausing for a moment to glance at her hair, which had been bunched to outrageous bushiness by her earlier fluffing, her flashy S.P.E.W. badge, and her obvious isolation, they again dissolved into laughter. _You, Granger._ She turned a deeper shade of red than the stripes on her Gryffindor tie.

"OH, sorry, SO sorry, God—" Lavender gasped.

"You surprised us, we didn't know you were in here, sorry" she said when their mirth had died. "We were just dying because Evingsby tried to talk to a Durmstrang—"

"_The_ Durmstrang," said Lavender with a sigh.

"Krum." They giggled, same pitch, in unison. Inside, Hermione vomited. She thought about saying something. Show off a bit. Tell them how he had approached her, touched her hand. Show them the notes in broken English, with his signature—an autograph many a fan would die to have—scrolled at the bottom. Instead, she stood, and went to dinner.

Ron's mouth was packed to capacity, and that was saying something. To be heard over this sloshing mass, he chose to yell while he chewed, creating an effect that was anything but charming.

"Friggin-mom pric-g. Showsh up here like a friggin God after Harry got de egg, nommomand shtarts chattin away wi hish old professuhs like hesh shome bi shot."

"I thought it was pretty cool he showed up," said Harry, just beginning to dive in to pumpkin pie.

"He ha to. Hesh Crouch's bitsh."

"Ron! For God's sake, don't be so crude!" Ron's mouth hung open in shock, and Harry looked up from his pie.

"Hermione, are you alright? Hey, if you're stressing about what we're going to do for the second task—" Harry broke off as Hermione abruptly jumped from the bench, spun on her heel, and headed out the double doors.

Once outside, Hermione took a grateful breath of the crisp autumn air. Why did they have to broadcast their failure as friends so loudly, make it so hard to ignore the way they used her? For Ron, she was another body to boost his ego. For Harry, an encyclopedia and shoulder to cry on. Done, done, done, she was so so done. She repeated this mantra to herself as she tromped down the path of loose pebbles that led to the edge of the lake. After navigating her way deep into a thicket of trees on the water's edge, as far from Hogwarts and the light of the Great Hall as she could get, Hermione settled on a moss covered rock where she often found solace. However, this solace was usually ushered by a book and the afternoon sunlight. Now, she was without the comforting weight in her hands, and the autumn was bringing nightfall closer and closer to the dinner hour. She watched her breath, and remembered she was without a coat. _But not without a wand, you fool_. She produced a merry little flame from the end of her wand and danced it over the surface of the rock. Biting her lip, she focused the flame into a shape. A glowing rabbit bounced back and forth over the moss, and played at her feet. She giggled—then screamed. She heard it, the sound of a man, and the bunny had vanished, along with her light.

"No scared! No-I-I mean, do not be scared! I so-I am so sorry! I saw the light, I was on a walk—"

"Viktor?"

"Yes, Her—"

"You weren't following me?"

"Why would I? I have not the need. Why the fire?"

"I was cold. I left the castle…I had to—"

"I understand."

She thought he probably did. Although he appeared to be agile only on a broom, he moved soundlessly through the underbrush to sit beside her. After pausing to become accustomed to his nearness, Hermione again produced the flickering rabbit. Soon, it was joined by a larger rabbit with long, floppy ears. Hermione laughed when Viktor made his fall over his feet in pursuit of her lighter, faster bunny. The warmth from the flames made her sleepy, and she relaxed against the boy's side. He laughed when her bunny fell trying to help her hefty new friend up. Then, after righting himself, the rabbit flopped over to where the bunny was lying and gently pressed his nose against hers. Hermione's heart stirred, but her bunny stayed perfectly still. Slowly, the rabbit's long ears perked until they were completely vertical—Hermione had to laugh again. Viktor looked at her and grinned, his rabbit vanishing into burgeoning firelight.

"Wheech made you laugh more, ze Rabbit or my English?" he raised his eyebrows, teasing her.

"Your English" she said, playing. "I can barely understand you."

She thought he was bending in laughter, until his warm lips pressed against hers. They stayed, like a hug, lingering softly.

"You understand" he blushed, pausing, gasping, "zat?"

Like the bunny had been, she was silent, waiting for her mind to tell her how to react. For the first time, perhaps, her mind failed her. During this realization, Krum had absorbed his attention in the flames, the blush on his cheek a combination of embarrassment and cold.

"N-no. I—" He tried to stand as she spoke, his flame extinguished. She grasped the sleeve of his thick coat, and was again very cold. "I mean, I don't. I don't understand—" she paused—perhaps too long, because it gave her time to think—but she was a Gryffindor after all. She kissed him lightly. "That. I have never…learned. It is not in books."

"Eet iz _not_ in books." He grinned. He understood; her fear, her inexperience, everything. He tucked her hair behind her ear, then shot a glance at her bunny, who stood, watching him. The silent spell he cast was one she had never seen; the bunny glowed until it was cherry red, then seemed to vanish in the darkness. The darkness shifted slightly, and something hard was pressed into Hermione's hands. It was the delicate animal of flame, now frozen into crystal clear glass. She gasped at its beauty, and thanked him with another light kiss on his soft, chapped lips. He responded with his own gratitude, pressing her warmth back onto her mouth and touching her cheek in the darkness.

Time was lost until Hermione's mind finally chose to assert itself after an absence considered substantial for a young woman of her intellect, and the kiss was broken with a startled, "Oh, Filch!"

"I half neevar heard zis curse. I like eet."

The porthole window was open, and she could hear the gentle lap of the waves against the great ship's side. She glanced at a photograph that was placed by the bedside from which a beautiful, raven-haired witch with black eyes smiled softly, blinking. Something made Hermione look more closely—the woman had Krum's eyes. A thin scar ran from her ear to her jaw, another thicker one was notched in her eyebrow. But she was beautiful, mesmerizingly so.

"Viktor, who is this woman? Is she your mother?"

"She es." Hermione saw the line between his eyebrows sharpen, and he squinted as if in pain.

"You miss her?"

"Verry, verry much. You," he glanced at her, deciding, "reminds meh off her."

A blush of heat crept over Hermione's face; she was a woman who exuded power, confidence and beauty radiating from that smile. To be compared to one he loved so dearly, it made Hermione's heart contract in pleasure and fear. How could he trust her so quickly?

"How? What do you mean?" He turned away from where she sat, facing the open window. She knew she should not pry, but something in the stiff way he held himself and his clenched fists made her want to know, to find out what caused this pain. Perhaps it was because she had become used to his speech, or because he spoke with such care, but the heavy accent that had weighted his syllables seemed to fall away.

"My mother was born of muggles. The death eaters, they saw how powerful, how intelligent, how beautiful she was. It is these people they cannot allow, they reveal their lies. They raped her, beat her, and left her to die. She lived, and hid. I was born. Her husband was the minister's assistant, very powerful. She could have said what he did, the man who had abandoned her to them, enough people would have condemned him, though many would applaud him. He needed the Death Eater's support, our government was full of them. When he found out she lived, about me, he came to her. He asked her to forgive him, offered to hide us himself. She refused, and he bound her, said he'd torture me and make her watch. After she agreed, he placed us in a cottage in the mountains. I remember him a little, his coat smelled like cigars. The death-eaters found out. He tried to hide with us but they came and tortured him. My mother begged them to spare us, but they needed to make an example. They killed the man and brought us to Karkaroff. He was head of the Death Eaters then. I guess he took pity on her, she was beautiful. It was possible he was my father, he had been the ond on her. They were in Romania then. I remember the day I first saw the Dark Lord's face, he was so beautiful, and so ugly because he knew it. He never traveled to where they were, just screamed orders by floo or howler. I was afraid, I begged my mother to let me sleep with her, but she wouldn't allow it. She locked me in my room, but I could still sometimes hear her scream. Karkaroff would sometimes take me outside, he gave me a real broom and made me promise not to tell my mother. I was too small; I think he thought it would have been funny to see me fall, and I would be less of a distraction if I died. I practiced in my room hour after hour until I could stay on, then I would fly out of my window at night, so I couldn't hear them. When he was captured my mother knew our only protection in that place was gone—in the confusion of Voldemort's wrath I flew us away. We hid until the Dark Lord fell, it couldn't have been more than a couple of months. The resistance took over the government and they paid her, quietly, for the names she gave. We returned to the mountains and I kept flying, she was always telling me to be ready. She told me that if they came again they would kill us. I was a better flyer than most men by the time I got my letter from Durmstrange. No one knew me or my family, I used a different name. I did not join the Quidditch team, I practiced in secret. I worried about my mother constantly. When the winter holiday began, I flew to her. I was too late, he got there first. He had his hand on her throat and his wand to her head. He told me she was a mudblood whore, a traitor. He said he had sent him to Azkaban, forgetting that it was his ineptitude that had got him there. If I wanted her to live, he said, she would be his slave. I, a half-blood, would be his ward. Otherwise, he would kill us both. The government restored all of his property, so we lived in luxury. He burned my broom once we arrived, said I'd have to prove my loyalty to earn one. If he hurt my mother, I was not allowed to protest. When I did, he just hit harder, and she told me to stop. I got my broom back before the start of term, and asked to join the Quidditch team. I destroyed them. Karkaroff allowed my mother to watch, it was the only time we had. She was proud of me. I returned for the summer and he got a trainer. I surpassed this man's skill, and Karkaroff took delight in the interest I got from professionals. I had more to learn, and I did. He became headmaster the next year, and pushed me endlessly. I never studied, only the game, always the game. He wanted me to take his name, but he knew that would bring bad press. I rose. My mother never missed a game. As the stands grew larger and more people watched, I would no longer be able to find her face before the match. I knew she was there, though. She wanted me to be smart like her, but I never had time. I wish…but I was so tired. My team saved me, they loved me. The people loved me. I did not feel so alone. Still, no one ever got very close. Most were put off by my success, those drawn by it were put off by Karkaroff. Anyone else, he chose. And he chose very, very few. All of my friends are the sons of death eaters. All of my teachers believe their words. Anyone less than a half-blood is not accepted into Durmstrang. The half-bloods live in shame. My mother is fortunate, she is protected. In my country, mudbloods are treated badly more and more, and I cannot stop it. It is people like you, with passion, intelligence, power, you can change them. You can stop them before it is too late."

Hermione noticed she was shaking, the frame still gripped in her hands. She glanced at the woman smiling up at her serenely, and read all of the strength that smile must have taken. She was smiling despite her world, all so that her son could find goodness in it, somewhere. And he saw that same goodness in her. When she glanced up, she saw him watching her through her tears. It was he who had the passion, the strength. She used her intelligence for nothing more than her own glory, never realizing what she could do to help those around her that had felt the sting of prejudice. For her, it had only ever been that. A sting, but something she could overcome by ignoring. For others, it was hell. He sat on the bed next to her, and he brushed away her tears. They were her tears, but they were also his mother's. The pressure to say something was building in her chest, but her tears kept coming to choke them off. He kissed her wet cheek, and she kissed his lips. She didn't have to say. The thick thud of boots in the narrow hall broke their moment, and Krum looked toward the door. His hand gripped her forearm, and tightened. She understood, and remained silent. The skill he had with moving soundlessly was impressive, he lifted her off the bed. He carried her across the room and laid her in his trunk, all the while watching the door. If he hadn't just revealed to her the world in which he lived, she would have protested loudly. Now, she sank wordlessly into the darkness, her stomach slithering into knots.

The knock was rapid and short, and Krum swiftly slid the bolt.

"Privet, Krum."

"Headmaster Karkaroff."

"It seems dat you have been practicing yoor English? Good, it's terrible. Zees pampered idiots think they are so clevar. I would like to show dem, and I tink, so vould you."

"Da, off coorse."

Karkaroff was silent, and Hermione heard him cross the floor, his boots scuffing as he walked toward the bed. He spoke again, quietly.

"You must focus. No deestractions."

"Da."

"Remember someding. For me."

"Chto?"

There was a splash, and an animal like growl tore the room, a cry that could only have come from Viktor. She heard the contact of their bodies, hoping it was Krum doing the beating.

"A mudblood whore has her place, and she mah be usevul. You are tense, use her. But do not distract yourselve." More scuffling. Krum howled again, the sound of splintering wood. Karkaroff spoke quieter still.

"Ef et es a fuck you want, haf her. Through her, we may geht Potterr. Maybe den you will control dese…tempers." The door slammed, and another loud thud followed. Hermione sat in the darkness, breathing. The lid snapped open, she saw his face was full of tears. They were hot and quiet, this rage more vengeful and deadly than what had pushed him to destroy the desk and crack the door. He did not tremble, that's what made him such a good player. His anger brought him strength, and he could control it, when he wished. She felt the need to leave him, and to save him. When she touched his face, she feared he would break. He gripped her wrist and opened his eyes, focusing on hers. Such pools of darkness had never seemed so bright, the fire in them burning into hers. His throat convulsed painfully, and he forgot his clutch on her wrist, so fragile in his hands. She refused to feel the pain, and brushed at his tears with the hand he held, comforting him the way he had done for her.

"I vill deestroy heem." The current of darkness in him, though it was for her, threatened to destroy her with his rage.

"_We _will. Destroy _all _of them." After she spoke, he remembered her. He wanted to kiss her, hold her, he wished she had not heard what Karkaroff had said. He had the horrible feeling of being discovered in something he did not do, and anything he might do to convince her otherwise would only accomplish the opposite. Perhaps this was Karkaroff's plan, after all. In seeking love, he would profane that which he found most desirable and pure. He released her wrist, loathing himself and Karkaroff and the world, and wanting to tell her, somehow, what he felt. She had seen so much of him, she would destroy him if she rejected this. But how could she be his and not believe what that snake had said? Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. Her face settled against his chest and she embraced him tightly. His broad hands settled on her soft, curly hair, and his tears stopped. Women had apparated into the muggle car Karkaroff used to conceal him so they could fuck him, risking almost certain splinching only to be tossed out onto the highway by Karkaroff's thugs. One woman hid in the locker room for four days until the end of a quidditch match, naked, intent on giving herself to him. But he had never been hugged. The frantic press of a victory huddle was nothing compared to an embrace like this. He felt her heart. He could not tell how long they had stood, but the play of the water against the hull seemed quieter, softer. A faint, grey light flooded the room from the porthole, and the water birds started to share their prophesy about the day ahead. Had they been asleep? They blinked at one another as though they were emerging from the black lake, and Hermione sighed. He was suddenly shy of her. With this simple touch, she had given him so much. Did she know her power? He brought a small boat with a spell mumbled in Russian, then enlarged the porthole so she could climb out. She transfigured his bed sheets into a rope, and he lowered her down. He watched her progress to the shore, and wished desperately he too could float away from the creaking, groaning bulk. He strained his eyes in the morning light, yearning to see the photograph that Karkaroff had so cruelly tossed away, but his eyes stung from his tears, and he closed them before he fell on his bed. He was asleep before the sun rose.

When she awoke, she remembered him from the taste. Her mouth did not taste just like her, there was some of him in it. She could not say that the taste was pleasant, but it tasted the way he did, in the woods, and always, and she liked that. She moved her head from the shadow of the bedcurtain, and saw the sunlight that streamed through the high dormitory windows. The glass bunny sat on her bedside table, and the sunlight made it glow. The image reminded her of the warmth of his kiss and the heat of his cheek, and she arched, stretched, and groaned in sleepy pleasure at the thought. She wanted to fill her mouth and arms with him, and it was a desire that was as present as the sunshine. It was sometimes obscured by circumstance, but constant and brilliant when she was relieved of distraction. There was no respite from classes and schoolwork for three days, three dreadful days of longing hitherto unknown and unprecedented in her heart. To deny the subtle feeling of pride, an awakened sense of self and confidence in her own worth would be to deny her own existence. She wondered lazily in the shower at the feeling of desire that had shot painfully through her at unexpected moments during their brief meeting. A glimpse at the thick, straining tendons in his neck as he blushed into the firelight had brought her higher than she'd ever been, and the solid feel of his mattress beneath her hands still made her blush at the memory. Karkaroff had used the word "fuck," and she found herself mouthing it from time to time. Could she fuck? Did he want her to? Was she opposed? Delighted? Offended? She was walking to Hagrid's hut with Harry and Ron on Friday evening, (whom she had not forgiven, but whose friendship she merely resumed like a comfortable pair of socks) when she made the decision that she was somewhere in-between. The season's chill was driving through her heavy wool cloak, and she was pulling her red and gold scarf tighter around her neck when she spotted something that distracted her from the asinine conversation of her compatriots. On the path ahead, the sweeping boughs of the fur-trees were tossing in the wind, but one limb stayed perfectly still. Located close to the ground as it was, Hermione readied her wand. The boy-who-lived didn't seem to notice the potential threat to that title, and the ginger git tripped along beside completely unawares. Surprise being her only ally, she decided that a silent stun was her best option. She heard the soft thud of the body, and claimed a need to tie her shoe. She would scream like a girl if the attacker proved any more harmful than Dobby with a Harry hard-on, and her gallant friends would come running. In the darkness of the trees, she found Krum's slack form. He had not yet been roused by his body, and his face was peaceful in the dreamless state of unconscious. The lines of the perpetual scowl he wore were smoothed away, and his lips were released from the normally tight line in which they were pressed. Without thinking, she brushed her fingers over them. That seemed to happen around Viktor with alarming frequency, the not thinking. The alacrity of his reflexes belied his temperate demeanor, having Hermione flat on her back below him before she could draw her hand from his lips, which were now drawn in a snarl. Her heart thudded a beat, he blinked, and said, "You stun me?" breathlessly, still aghast at her ability and his own ineptitude. The shock of the moment widened her coffee colored eyes and parted her lips, red from the cold. The weight of his body and his anger pressing her into the earth brought color to her cheeks. Nothing stirred in her mind, except her sudden miraculous ability to gasp a wavering, "Da."

The wide, unblinking eyes examined the lines above his pale ones, etched into his forehead from boyhood. The spell that the serenity of his features had cast upon her held her, and lifted her fingers to tenderly stroke the worries away. Krum hated nothing more than the feeling of being unconscious. It took him several minutes to regain his bearing after every stun, which is why he avoided wandplay as much as he could help it. He never liked to feel helpless. In this state, his instincts would inevitably take over. As his performance on the Quidditch pitch would prove, he had killer instincts. The moment Hermione chose to raise her hand, he pressed her wrists into the foliage on either side of her head. This sudden shift in position caught them both off guard, but Hermione's reaction was one Krum thought he might treasure for the rest of his life. Her eyes grew, if possible, wider, lips fell away from one another, eyebrows arched, blood poured into her cheeks, but her body betrayed her more than her countenance. The instinct that would normally be consumed by his better judgment at this point fought with ferocity at its binds, and he could not resist another of the slight hip movements that had produced such a pleasing result. The response was the same, but all the more appealing because he knew it had been real. Something behind the darkness of those eyes told her to struggle, and he felt her feeble attempts against his grip. His reason triumphantly returned, and, with it, a feeling of shame at having been so exposed. Still, the base voice that had controlled him whispered through the clamor of his reason that she had wanted it, that something in her had been set loose too. And she had liked it. He opened his mouth to speak as he pushed himself hurriedly off and helped her shakily to her feet, but could not find a string of English words to express his feelings. All, they all failed to contain his thoughts.

"Viktor, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have." She had regained her breath, and found blame in his silence. "I should have known, but I'm always so careful, you must understand." He wasn't sure if she was talking about the spell or their sudden display of lust, but his mind simply refused to provide him with the phrases he needed to convey his sympathy. She seemed to have put her hurt in one eye and her longing in the other, and gazing at the black depths of them both was making him dizzy. He had never felt a girl so close to him like that. She was trembling, and so was he. He clenched his fist to steady himself, and he felt the soft resistance and the crinkle. Without a word, he shoved it into her palm and bolted into the woods. He would let magic speak for him. The birdsong sounded loud after the pounding in her ears had faded, and she finally lifted the object he had pressed into her hand up to the sunlight that slanted through the trees. On thick red paper which had been slightly crinkled where he had clutched it nervously, embossed gold lettering swam before her eyes. Scrolled first in a delicate Cyrillic script, the letters melted into the familiar English shapes.

_The Honor Extended by the Guests of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_The Durmstrang Institute for Magical Learning_

_An Invitation to the Festivities_

_The Yule Ball_

_Hosted by the Host, Admittance by Invitation_


	2. Chapter 2

The delicious feeling of cool silk sliding across her flushed skin made Hermione shiver in the darkness of the empty dormitory. The soft undulations of pink material that caressed her were so far from the starched white and thick wool of the shapeless uniform that usually obscured her body, and she could not contain the feeling of vulnerability that plunged through her when she glanced into the mirror. She had been diligently preparing herself for the occasion all evening; shaving (The Muggle way. Even she was not that confident in her magical abilities), scrubbing, then the gargantuan task of taming her unruly mass of frizz. She had purchase Sleek-Easy's brew after researching the various products available to the magical world, and applied it after washing. Now, the dryness having been combated, her curls bounced and waved down her back. She gathered the silky tendrils and marveled at the way they shone in the dim light from the lamp on her bureau. After a rather complicated spell that twisted and pinned her hair into an attractive shape, Hermione drew close to the mirror to inspect the resulting effect.

She worried, as she touched the softness with her fingers, that it would still not be enough. They would think she was a pretender, ridiculous in her finery, a plain little girl playing dress up. Then she remembered his eyes. They gleamed in her mind, roving over her face in that hungry way, devouring her own eyes with the intensity of his gaze. He had sent her one note, since then, to determine her answer. The mysterious reasons for his avoiding her gnawed at her. She wondered if he would not show, or walk in with a tall, regal looking blond on his arm. She had persuaded herself that she had no reason not to trust him, and willfully ignored the fact that she had very little reason to. Without much skill in the art of makeup, she decided to apply as minimally as possible, in the hope that she would then be less likely to mess anything up. Declaring herself finished, she slid on her demure pink heels. She had got half-way through the common room when she realized she left her wand on her bed. Without it, she felt naked, and she puzzled for a time about where she should put it. She hastily performed a shrinking charm, and slid it into the elastic of her knickers. She paused, staring at them for a moment. Her mother had persuaded her to buy underwear to match her dress, to make sure there would not be an embarrassing show, but she might have overdone it, a bit. A stretch a pink lace hid her body, the silk smooth and fine against the softness of her skin. She lifted the side of her dress and gazed at the contrast between the blushing silk and her pink and white skin. For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger felt sexy.

He was there. When she finally mustered the courage to descend the grand staircase, she found his eager smile and burning black eyes to greet her. The dress robes of Durmstrang were reminiscent of the military-like standard imposed on the school. Hermione knew her response was stereotypical, but at the sight of Viktor in crimson, with brass buttons parading up the middle of his broad chest, she lost her breath. When he bowed to her, his heels clicked. The arm she held was powerful, she felt him flex self-consciously when she accepted his offered appendage. She noticed Harry, but couldn't discern the nature of his response to her appearance, or her company. She was grateful for Viktor's arm when the champions were called to begin the festivities. Hearing the murmur of the crowd surrounding them, she mentally schooled herself for becoming distracted. Even Krum, who had so often faced crowds ten times this size seemed to pale slightly when the music rose. When his arm circled her waist, he brought his eyes to hers. They seemed to be pleading for something, and Hermione smiled to reassure him. He grinned, and then it was all she could do to keep up and not shame Hogwarts by falling. They twirled, she shut her eyes at the feeling and she heard him laugh. He was breathless, it seemed, but kept laughing quietly. He seemed surprised by something, but pleasantly so. When the waltz had ended, he drew close before parting, and whispered forcefully, so only she could hear, "You har beautiful." He seemed reluctant to remove his hand from her waist, and she had trouble remembering to applaud when the music ended. Her arms were numb. He offered her his arm and a crooked eyebrow, and she agreed to be led away from the dance-floor. Whispered comments slithered around them as they slipped through the crowd, and she caught sight of more than a few incredulous Hogwarts faces. When they made it out of the crowd and Krum headed toward the door, Hermione felt a quiet panic build within her. Was he going to thank her for making such a good show, and send her away? Apologize for leading her on? He was avoiding her gaze, and moving rather quickly. When they burst through the doors and into the outer hall, he was practically jogging. Suddenly, his hands on her cheeks, her back against the door, and his hot lips pressed against hers. It wasn't bad, but it felt like the flare of a match inside of her, pleasure and fear and something that made her want to pull him deeper and push him away. A soft cry issued from inside of his chest, and his lips withdrew. Something like fear was on his face when she opened her eyes, and she didn't understand.

"I doo not understand heet. I ham sorree. I vant—" It was not fear, but shame, she realized, that made him turn away. "I vant you to like mee. But, how can you like mee?"

The words were simple, but the torment within was evident in the tense way he held his jaw and shoulders. "Viktor" his sorry meek eyes emboldened her, and she drew his face toward hers, her hand on the soft base of his neck. He looked at her, and she smiled at him. The same delighted, eager light that had resulted from her encouragement on the dance floor lit his eyes. Something shivered deep within herself, and she was startled to feel power growing in her veins. "I can see who you are, if you let me. I would like to. I like you, too." Could she be attractive? Perhaps not in the general sense, but to this man, maybe. The way his eyes lingered on her lips when she said, "I like you" seemed to confirm that. His smiled seemed silly, too boyish for eyes so dark. His life was a man's, but he had the soul of the child he was never allowed to be. Hermione did not think it too great a task to nurture and care for this soul, if he allowed her.

"You like mee?" he said, and when the look in her eyes reaffirmed her words, he laughed breathlessly before pressing into her with the softness of his lips. Behind her, Hermione felt the bass kick up, vibrating the door. The real party had begun. Krum heard it to, and smiled roguishly. His grin and the feeling of his kiss lingering warm on her lips made her heart thrum, and she was floating when they joined the thronging mass on the dance floor. He spun her, held her, bounced and laughed with her. It felt like playing, like freedom, she was silly and she didn't care. Faces around spun past, in and out of focus. She thought she saw the horrified face of Lavender Brown over Krum's shoulder, but the lights danced past and Hermione danced on. They would talk, and, inevitable, it would be nasty. Dating up was dangerous, and rarely resulted in more friends. She imagined they'd call her a slut or something. _Slut, fuck, his mud-blood whore. _Krum noticed she wasn't dancing, and offered to get drinks. She nodded and followed him out of the crowd. She had pressed Karkaroff's words into the back of her mind, but now they beat through her like the bass from the speakers. She needed to step away for a moment, to reassure herself. She saw Harry and Ron, she wondered if they had come together. They were alone at one of the tables, and she joined them. Perhaps they could reassure her.

"You're fraternizing with the enemy." Ron announced, slapping and degrading her with his words. When she tried to deny, explain, his eyes landed heavily on her neckline, one eyebrow hung loftily in disbelief. She would punch him until they couldn't tell his face from his hair.

"Even if I was fucking him, Ronald, that doesn't give you any reason to pout. I would spread my legs for Snape before I touched a bastard like you." The power Krum had given her, the assurance his desire had lit in her soul filled her, and her rage would no longer be checked. Harry looked dumb-struck, a phrase Hermione felt apt. She found Krum, and tried to calm herself. From the look on his face, she still looked murderous. She took the nearest cup from his hand and downed it, realizing too late the transfiguration. "Vodka?" she asked him, and he looked so shocked and apologetic she had to laugh through the sputter-inducing burn in her throat.

"Zat vas mine. Yours, de punch."

"Don't worry Viktor. I needed it." Her change in mood put him at ease, and he smiled in response. The look was so sweet, but residue from her sweeping rage tickled an urge inside of her. She watched him drink the sugary confection, imagining what it would taste like on her tongue. Again, her look must have betrayed her emotion. Viktor crushed his cup and tossed it, then nodded toward the door. A shivery thrill like the swish of her silk skirt slid down her back as she nodded. He pressed his large hand to the small of her back. If they were going to call her a whore, Hermione was determined to reap at least some of the benefits from her new reputation.

Once outside, he wrapped his arm around her. They walked down the hall in silence, until they passed further than the light from the floating candles. She looked at him, what she could see in the faint light. The thin pale stripe of skin that showed above his collar transfixed her.

"Your friendz, dey do not like mee?"

"They think that you will use me." He pressed his chin against his chest, rubbing the nape of his neck with his hands.

"Do you sink dis of me?" She didn't have to bend her knees very far to look up at him, and she pressed her body against his chest. The cold brass pressed against her skin, and she realized how hot she was. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her.

"Could you?" she whispered. It was a plea as much as it was an inquiry into his nature. She felt his arms tighten, but he tried to ignore the first implication.

"I vould nevar hurt—" She already knew, so she demanded an answer for her desire. He gave this as readily and passionately as the first, sliding one of her lips into his mouth. His hands pressed her lower back, bringing her more tightly against him. She straightened her legs, sliding up his body and pressing deeper into his mouth. He traced her lip with his tongue, and, curious, she opened. He pressed softly against hers, and she pressed her lips around it. The sound he made reminded her of Crookshanks' purr, deep and throaty and pleased. She wondered if his mind wandered, but the thought of his potential imaginings made nervous pinpricks dart over her skin. His fingers pressed against her cheek, slid to her neck, then rested lightly on her collar-bone. It was too much, and she hated the fear that pressed into her stomach. She wanted to be confident, wanted this to be an act conscious and determined, desired not just by her body, but by her soul.

She pulled away, and the clamor of heeled shoes and jabbering voices gave them both a start. Krum spotted an alcove and pulled her to it, retreating from those who would invade their special darkness. They stood, noses touching, protected by the ancient stone. His eyes were closed, hers, open. The smile that played on his face contradicted the feeling of soul-rending seriousness coursing through her body, and she suddenly laughed at his expression. She did not understand how he could be so cavalier about what they had shared, but it felt deliciously dangerous that he felt it something to smile about. She touched his lips, and he opened his eyes. She almost wished he hadn't. The comfortable feeling was again replaced with those pinpricks of fear, the bottom of her stomach dropped away and she was falling into the icy intensity of those eyes. With maddening deliberateness, he placed his hands against the wall on either side of her head. He brought his bottom lip to touch her top, then kissed the corner of her jaw. She barely felt his touch on her pulse point, but the wet heat of his tongue on her neck made her breath hitch. The noise stirred him, and he placed his lips where he had moistened. Slowly, he drew her in, the sting and the heat and the sudden feel of his teeth on her flesh making her cry out while her fingers curled patterns in his hair. The low rumble began again in his chest, and she felt a secret pleasure that she was its cause.

"Ah, Viktor. Not too much fun, da?"

Hermione felt the sudden pain of wandlight through closed eyelids, not knowing when she had closed her eyes. She knew she should open them and face Karkaroff's sneer, but she did not want to lose the feeling she had discovered just a moment before. Ron's upraised eyebrow flashed in her mind, and her eyes flew open.

"Headmaster Karkaroff, enjoying your evening?" Krum's hand had fallen to her shoulder, and she felt it tighten there. It was a warning, she knew. He did not want her to be reckless.

"You certainly seem to be, miss…?" His breath smelled of alchohol.

"Granger. I'm Viktor's—"

"Yes, I know." Hermione hypothesized that he used that smile to kill kittens. He grabbed Krum's arm and pulled him closer.

"I trust zat you'll be a bit more discreet." After clapping him on the shoulder, he turned his eyes to her. He brought the back of his hand against her cheek, so softly, parodying the action he would otherwise delight in, and caressed it.

"Miss Granger," Karkaroff said, "be good to heem."

They heard his shoes smacking the stone floor, then he screamed in Russian at those unlucky face-suckers who had, moments previously, joined them in the hall.

"Come," Krum said, not looking at her face, leaving behind Karkaroff and the darkness. As they drew near the doors, they could hear other parties breaking up.

"You'd think somebody told 'em Hogwarts was a brothel with the way they're carrying em off tonight!"

"You're just sore because that Quidditch hotshot picked up Hermione." She froze when she heard Percy's voice. She'd seen him at the banquet table between Fudge and Crouch, scribbling on parchment like he was in History of Magic. A flutter had passed through her, and she was unsure whether she wanted to be seen by him or not. Now, she thought, she would have little choice.

"She's no business with him! Guess he's the kind of sonovabitch who would do that. Fuck girls no one else wants so they'll worship him. Guys like that can't get enough—"

Hermione felt it was fortunate that, besides the hair, there was little family resemblance. She wasn't sure if she'd forgive Krum if he'd mistaken Percy, who emerged first, for Ron, and decked him instead.

"Oi!" Ron was blinking, trying to focus so he could return the favor. Hermione reached for Krum's arm, but he was already lifting Ron off the floor.

"Bastarrd!" Krum growled as he hoisted the younger boy into the air. She did not like the sight of Ron's blood dribbling over his swollen lip, and knew there would be more to follow if she did not act quickly. Regretfully, she withdrew her wand.

"STUPIFY!"

"Stupify." Her wand was pointed lazily at Krum, and it took her a moment to register Percy's willow pointing where Krum had previously stood.

"You stunned him!"

"So did you! You knew he'd have killed him. You really should watch it, Miss Granger!"

"You're as bad as him!" She pointed at Ron, who glared blearily at her.

"Would you both shut up and repair my nose? Damn smarts better be good for something." Ron was attempting to stem the flow with his hand, to no avail. While Percy mended the nose to the best of his ability, he spoke pointedly to her.

"Miss Granger, I'm not sure what you think you will accomplish by consorting with Durmstrang, but I feel it is my duty as a government official to warn you that certain considerations taken here in our country are not granted to those who are born from Muggle parents in countries outside. Even if he is ignorant of your birth, you must also remember to keep your head and not let his fame and influence cloud your judgement. I would not necessarily consider it a compliment that he has sought you out. Rather, consider it a cause for alarm. Ron seems to be correct in his assessment of this man's character. He is violent, temperamental, and clearly has no consideration for public appearances. I ask you, if you do not find any cause for alarm in that, can you really be thinking clearly?" At the last he turned to look at her, and blinked in shock at her expression. He had felt Ron's words more cutting, but she looked as though she'd been struck. He wanted to comfort her. That she was intelligent and resourceful was evident, but these qualities, he knew, often resulted in a certain level of naiveté when it came to matters of the heart. At least, he thought, he could offer genuine advice, rather than the bumbling ridicule spewed by his ass of a brother.

"Miss Granger, Hermione, you have been protected at Hogwarts. To a degree, you've been shielded from the harshness of the world. It is not a lesson I would wish you to learn in such a way. Not when it could be so easily prevented. Has he not come round?" She had knelt in front of Krum's form and lifted his head to her lap, refusing to look at Percy as he continued with his well-meant didacticism.

"No." She placed one hand under his chin and examined his eyes. Percy felt bad for the pitiful girl, but she had to see reason.

"Listen, that Karkaroff is probably skulking around, perhaps we could get him to a classroom? Wouldn't want any international incidents on our hands for a little mix-up like this."

"Well get a fuckin move on, cuz here he comes." Ron announced as the thick tread of Karkaroff's boots echoed his return.

"_Levitate corpus_! Both of you, go to hell." Hermione stepped passed them quickly, pushing Viktor's slumped form as she hurried.

Percy grabbed her bare arm tightly, something that, weeks ago, would have had her in a daze. "Hermione, this is idiocy, madness. You do not know what men like that are capable of. He will hurt you, and what will that do for relations? A muggle-born should know to tread lightly!"

"Fuck. Off." She wrenched her arm free of his slender-fingered grasp, and pushed her date into the thick winter darkness.

**I have not updated in some time, and I apologize to any who may have been waiting for another installment. I anticipate that the next chapter should arrive with much less delay. If you would be so kind, do review! (I should really stop watching historical British dramas…)**


	3. Chapter 3

Read and review!

Gold and silver light, fire and moon, softened the darkness of his vision. He pushed the darkness back, but it clung to him stubbornly. His body tensed in the grip of panic, each muscle straining to revive. Something pressed on him, he gripped it and was surprised by its softness. "Viktor," she whispered, "you're hurting me."

His mind clung to the soft sound, and it carried him out of the black blur. Her hair tickled under his chin, he recognized the pressure of her arms as she tried to pry herself away from his crushing embrace. Instantly, he released her. Rather than break away, she pressed closer, wrapping her arms around him.

"I was hoping you'd come around soon. I'm so sorry about stunning you, but I did not want to spend my evening mopping up Ronald's guts."

He brought his hand to her hair, remembering the other boy's jealous rage.

"Dey claim you are friends. He should not say such a thing about anyone, ezpecially a woman like you. He deserve more dan vat I gave heem." His fingers had curled themselves deep into her hair as he spoke, but he checked his growing rage. He apologized for ruining the carefully spelled chignon, but Hermione just smiled and tugged her curls free. The effect of her silky hair cascading down her back, catching the firelight when she tossed her head, mesmerized him. His eyes lingered on her, the power of his anger now fueling passion of a different kind. Her smile faded and her eyes dropped from his, gazing at the fire she had charmed into a crackling blaze. She had hoped it would calm him when he woke, but she had also considered another mood such ambiance could inspire.

"What do you mean, a woman like me?" She needed more information before she could proceed, her capability to take risks mitigated by her desire for answers. Although Percy's theory had been insulting, it had awoken thoughts she had pushed away to follow her desire. She prayed that Viktor would see the need for even a small amount of assurance, given the vulnerable position she would be placing herself in.

"Hermione, you are a strong woman. You are not like de udder girls. Dere heads are full of silly tings, and dey do not understand power. You understand. You see tings. You are the kind of woman I want, and de kind dat needs someone who also understands." He cupped her cheek, drawing her gaze from the fire and into his, riveting her with the dark glint of intelligence that she found so desirable. She was ashamed for liking Percy. She understood that power only came to those who knew how to get it, and she admired Percy for his skill in attaining it. Now, she saw her naiveté. She realized that she had found in Viktor a match for her cunning, if not for her knowledge of the Goblin Wars. He did not want to use her like Karkaroff imagined, he wanted to use her the same way she would use him. Their partnership was one of mutual desire, and mutual benefit. This was the kind of man, Hermione thought, she could love.

He watched as her suspicion lifted, and his heart pounded when he saw the grin that followed. "Good answer." She brought her cheek to his, brushing his ear with her lips as she whispered, "Do you understand?" She pulled back, but her eyes did not have time to again focus on his. He gave an even better and more satisfying answer than the previous, cradling her head in his hands and taking her lips with his. His arm wrapped around her waist, and in one swift movement, she had replaced him on top of the pillows, now pinned beneath his crimson clad body. He broke their embrace to tug open each of his glinting buttons, tossing his coat in a heap on the floor. The shadow he cast on the wall was enormous, its muscles bristling like a storybook monster. She sought the softness of his eyes to steady her suddenly faint heart, but found desire as hot as molten steel had filled them.

"Viktor, I don't know what to do. I don't like not knowing."

He shook his head, pressing his fingers to her lips.

"Do nothing. Be. It is enough." He traced the marks he had made on her neck with his fingers. The softness lulled her, until, seized by a sudden passion, he resumed his assault. She had the delicious feeling of stretching, that delicate pleasure that makes one groan, and she let a soft one escape her lips. His hands were desperate at the dress' zipper, but she let him muddle through. They slid over the silk to her stomach, softly squeezing, a gesture of worship and desire. Reverence. The hands grazed up, and they both gasped at the discovery of her breasts beneath the pressure of his palms. She was afraid of the eyes that sought hers, what she would see in them. For a moment, there was only primal power, then it faded again into diamond hard desire. She wanted to pull at this mask he wore, find the boy with the warm smile and throaty laughter. She was afraid of his desire, and hers. The panic mixed with pleasure, and she fought every thought that told her to be reasonable, modest, pure. The zzzzttt of her zipper and the suddenness of his fingertips on her skin—skin only she had touched—made her blood pound, a drum that beat in her, on her, places she had never been and never knew to share. He smoothed the silk from her shoulders, kissing them. Her decision, her move. She rose slightly, trembling. He revealed her, eyes widening, drinking, devouring, plundering every curve and soft expanse as he went. When she arched her back, lifting so he could pull it off, she saw his adam's apple bob wildly, his eyes fill with haze. Remembering the power and the surrender, the quiet war of pleasure that had ensued in the forest, her trembling subsided. She no longer felt the shuddery sickness that swept through her at the thought of being so bare, so honest before this man.

She gripped his shirt, touched his jaw, burnt her eyes into his. His breath was hot on her neck, his teeth, lips, pulling her to him. Her fingers were small, slipping each button easily from its confines. She sank, knees bent on either side. The pink lace was hiding little as her legs spread. She got the last of the buttons. The quiet growling was starting in his throat, and he threw his shirt from him. He watched her watching him, her eyes traveling his chest, thick arms, the shadows made by the jut and curve of each muscle. He regretted the moment lost in removing the thin shirt beneath, he never wanted to look at anything else. How could he tell her? Flowers, the sun, any beauty he had seen could never compare to what lay before him. He feared that he would consume her, that he would scare her and he would be ashamed for hurting such a being. Such a wonder. Beauty, beauty. Those eyes on him, he wanted to give her everything. He wanted to touch her. She touched him.

The boldness of her. Her fingers touched him, his stomach, inquisitively. She felt, he felt, they reacted. He was tightening and loosening, his muscles flexing as his hold relaxed. The drum beat in places that were secrets she longed to tell, and each beat built the longing. She wondered if he knew what she wanted, she wondered if she wanted him to. She wondered what she wanted. She ran those fingers up his terrain, through the soft curls on his chest, slowly inching her fingers to circle his nipples. Up onto his neck, into the hollows and up the column, the tops caressing the smoothness of his chin. Slowly, he caught her fingers, kissing them each, then her hand. The softness drove him, the feel and smell and sudden wonder of her beneath his lips. Her wrist, fluttery in his grip, the delicate and pale skin to the hollow which she bent up to him. He gripped under it, her elbow, lifting her arm to kiss under, up to her shoulder. She squirmed as it tickled and tried to catch her breath when his hands released her arms and caught her back. She did not feel herself arched to him, want him, but he could feel nothing else, his lips wanting the taste of her. He was lifting her against him, then laying her gently down as he followed her, his lips finding every plane and dip, curve and hollow he could reach. She was beneath him, and his body kept telling him so. He was hard, but couldn't hear himself think over the pounding in his ears, so he wasn't embarrassed as he might have been when he brushed against her leg. But she must have felt it. He felt her rise against him, her soft looking breasts swelling against the pink lace. Her skin was flushed. Pink, white, pink, petals and silk and he wanted to touch. He watched his hand, big and hard and clumsy, and he feared for that delicate flesh before he felt her, firm and supple and soft. He heard her sound, something like pain, something like surprise. Through the clouds of pink and pale flesh that were consuming him he sought her eyes. It would destroy him to hurt her. Her amber curls danced on her pale skin, the lace two thin ribbons that clung to her shoulders, the paleness of her neck was exposed. Her hand had curled like a crushed blossom against her cheek, hiding her from him. Hiding from him.

"Hermione". He said her name. She seemed to gather herself, then she turned her face to gaze at him through the same haze of desire he had been fighting. The eyes held what she had been hiding, and he was overcome.

"I feel…I want you to." Her whispers were her fingers, the curled and touched and killed and brought him to life. His fingers slid beneath the curls, the soft neck, lips hot against hers. Her palms on his shoulders. How could he stop his hands? They took her like they'd wanted, pulling those sounds from lips that pushed desperately against his. He felt the firmness of her flesh under him as it strained against the cloth, against his delay. He was enticed, her appeal overwhelmed his restraint, he needed more than anything to feel her, to make her feel when he did, like he did. He straddled those thin legs, pressed so tightly against the delicious opening. Holding her up with one hand, he tugged the catches of her bra free with his other, pulling it forward. She chose, letting go, lifting it off. The sight of those soft little nipples made him so hot, it hurt. He wanted to kiss her into him, wanted her to come to him. He pressed her into the bed, his mouth finding a bud and sucking, his hand feeling the other harden against his palm. Her cries went straight to his desire, he throbbed and suckled, wanting her. Her legs twisted, he growled as she brushed him. His hand released her breast and passed up and down the smoothness of her stomach. Fingertips brushing the lace, waiting, then under, seeking her. His teeth replaced his lips, her fingers curled in his hair. Her hips lifted, and his fingers slid to the slit. He ran his thumb over what he found, gently. Her eyes had acknowledged her passion, but feeling her slick with her own need destroyed his intention to build slowly. They were ready.

Please review! I'm sorry I've been away so long. I didn't want to write a chapter like this until I could fully relate to my characters. Ah, but I'm letting you see the man behind the curtain! If you keep reviewing, I'll keep writing!


	4. Chapter 4

He paused, ready to tip the world on its side and feel his body slip into hers, but unwilling to take this moment from her without receiving one last look of approval. In that moment, the thundering knock at his door hit her like a gunshot, and she shuddered deeply in shock as he, impulsively, leaped to his feet. Neither spoke as the sound cut in again, both tensed like razor wire. Hermione scrambled to her knees when Krum called out, "WHAT?"

He wanted his look to be apologetic for his savage tone, but he could tell by her fire lit face that she, too, violently resented the interruption.

"Krum, it's Theo!"

Victor did not respond, waiting for him to state what business he had. Hermione took this moment to summon her clothing, in the event that her exit was imminent.

"Krum? Eh, vell, you see, we've got three girls from Beauxbatons we promised to introduce to you, dey are very insistent. Why don't you come and join us, da?"

"No."

"What the hell are you doing that's so much better? Not the mudblood in there, eh?"

Hermione watched Krum lunge for his wand, and she hurried to grab his arm.

"Don't be silly. I thought we were done thinking you had to defend my honor. I've chosen you, he can call me what he wants."

"Fuck off!" Krum yelled through the door, but the young man was not to be deterred.

"Why don't you bring her out? That'll liven things up. What's her name? C'mon, out little mudblood! It's obvious you can teach these French girls a thing or two about how to please, if Krum's already got you between the sheets".

"He's drunk, Krum, leave it".

His breath was rapid and his knuckles white as he gripped the bedpost.

"Theo, I vill kill you tomorrow. Go, de fuck, away."

Girlish giggles and raucous shouts grew louder, and someone called the messenger away from Krum's door.

"Okay, comrade, I guess you'll have all de fun. Dere's no vay ve can bag this lot without de grrrreat Victor Krum. Bloody mudfucking sod." Hermione had to throw herself in front of the door to keep Krum from breaking it down and, presumably, tearing the other boy's throat out. He howled at the door and Theo beat a hasty retreat. When he saw Hermione shrunk away from his fury, with her back to the door, he almost howled again. Slowly, she stood upright, and tilted her chin in the air. He took a step back and sunk onto the bed as she walked toward him, bathed in orange light, a regal glint in her eye. She looked like an otherworldly queen. She was entirely devoid of her clothing, yet was richly clad and shrouded in her powerful dignity. He felt his heart kneel to worship her. She was not offended, not slighted by the unjust words and insinuations. She was both literally and figuratively bare, and yet she protected herself from this hurt at the moment when she was at her most vulnerable. He had worried when he saw her shrink from his fury, but now he understood that she felt it too.

"Viktor," she said, her voice hot and firm, "I want to make love to you." She was only fifteen, but her voice, her manner, the desire in her eyes as she approached him was a woman's. His blood, aching from the combination of arousal and fury, pounded and rose at her words.

"However, it cannot be tonight. It shouldn't be, not after that." She was so close, touching him, holding his cheek while twisting fingers in his hair. Her body was within his reach, he would go mad if she persisted in her contradictory way.

"Dey are nothing, nothing! You know dat dey are nothing, and"-he touched her waist, as close as he could get without pulling her to him and on to him despite her protests-"I know dat you want dis."

"Their words are still in this room with us, I can't be with you like I want with them here. I want to find a place where we are just people, bodies, where we can share pleasure without being reminded of the world outside of us."

He understood, but he could not suppress a groan of frustration when her naked thigh brushed his and his eyes were full of her flesh.

"I do not vant dis night to end. Not yet."

She sighed, and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. The pressure, the soft give of her lips and the faint moisture he felt as he pressed further into her mouth made his pulse run wild and his mind spin. She pulled away quickly, aware that her chaste kiss could never be so with the desire and frustration that flowed between them. She gathered her clothing, and put it on slowly, in front of the fire. He wondered if she knew that this was the perfect kind of torment, if she got a measure of pleasure from his acute and apparent suffering. He wouldn't blame her if she did. He memorized each curve and dip before it disappeared once more into lace and chiffon. She watched as he spelled his clothes on, and expressed her envy at his advanced magic. He suspected that she wasn't as ignorant of the spell as she had let on. They had refrained from using magic thus far, it seemed out of context, somehow. He knew she wouldn't receive half the pleasure and pain he had from watching him reclothe.

"Can I leave the way I did last time, through the porthole?"

"Do you have to leave dis moment? Ve could talk, or perhaps you could stay and we vould just sleep, nothing more."

"You know as well as I that no sleeping would occur, and if I stay and talk, I am just as likely to tear off your shiny buttons and do something I would regret. No, we'll find another way, Viktor. We must, or I'll never get another night's sleep. I will try to see you tomorrow."

He rose to kiss her goodbye, and he felt guilty when he realized he had pressed her back to the wall and his body against hers. Her resistance was feeble, but it was apparent, and he relented quickly. She slipped deftly out in the next instant, and he felt with a pang that she was running away. He did not realize that she was running from her impulse to let him have her, there, against the wall with her dress pushed up her thighs and the breeze hitting her hot flesh from the open porthole. She tried to catch her breath on the way to her dormitory, and he was left with an aching body and a restless mind. In order to keep himself from reliving his torture through constant imaginings and engrossing fantasies, he set his mind to finding a place where he could have her, and she him, and the world would never know.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you Smithback for your review. Your encouragement keeps me writing! To everyone who has reviewed or followed this story, thank you for your support, I hope not to disappoint!**

The corridors where Hermione walked were full of whispers. Those who had formerly respected her turned aside in derision, but she seemed suddenly much more popular with those she had previously tried to avoid. Even Pansy Parkinson refrained from shouldering her as she passed. She was not puzzled as to the motive for her new treatment, her very public connection with Durmstrang's finest had to have some effect on her reputation. Still, she was not looking forward to her meeting with Harry and Ron, which was inevitable. Harry caught up with her in the library, the one place she thought she could find refuge from them. It certainly was not one of their regular haunts.

She had tucked herself up in one of the many alcoves between shelves, distracted from her reading by the stunning view of the stormy lake and wind-tossed forbidden forest. The Durmstrang's ship bobbed on the waves. Harry was whispering in her ear before she was aware of his presence.

"Are you okay?"

She jumped, dropping her book. He bent to retrieve it, then slid next to her on the stone seat as he handed it to her.

"Ron told me what he said, and what happened. That was pretty foul of him, I think he knows he deserved what he got."

She was pleased to hear him say it, but wary. It had been a long time since her best friend had inquired after her feelings.

"Oh, I'm fine. I thought you'd both be mad at me, and, honestly, I'm not really Ron's biggest fan right now."

Harry paused, acknowledging the division between his friends, and continued.

"Well, Ron deserves it. He's got a temper he needs to learn to control. Ginger, you know."

Hermione giggled. "Oh, do I ever. Ginny has one too. Did you see her at the ball with Neville? She told me that she hexed Goyle's drink because he said something about Neville to Draco, so that everyone could hear. I'm not sure that he'll be able to eat for a week."

Harry nodded, "Yeah, I saw them together. It made Ron all weird, and I don't blame him. I think she's a little young for Neville."

Hermione rolled her eyes, then grew suspicious. "Viktor is in his seventh year. He doesn't seem to have a problem with my age."

Harry tensed, looking away from her toward the massive black ship where it rocked on the inky lake.

"Hermione, I'm not sure that I like this. Now, don't go thinking I'm going to fly off the handle like Ron, but it's like Professor Moody keeps saying, 'Constant vigilance,' you know? It's just…" He turned to look at her, and quailed a bit from her stony eyes, "Listen, I just want you to tell me _why_. I'm your friend. I know I've been kind of a jerk lately, and this triwizard tournament of death has me pretty tense and distracted, but I don't want to look back a month from now and regret not talking to you about this, if I can keep you from getting hurt."

Although the sentiment was similar to Ron's and Percy's, it did not carry with it the kind of pure-blood prejudice which both had failed to hide, and he actually assumed that she had reasoned about her decisions, which was much more understanding. She relaxed and nodded, knowing that she was not infallible, and that she was deeply in need of someone else's perspective.

"Well, I have missed getting to talk. You didn't really tell me what happened with Cho, whether you got the courage to ask her to the dance or not."

"You were a little upset by Ron before the dance, and it was really rude of him to ask you like that, but I figured you probably didn't want to talk to either of us after that. We just didn't expect that your someone was the master of the Wronski feint! Anyway, yeah, Cho's with Diggory. I guess both Ron and I waited a little too late to ask the people we wanted."

"Ron doesn't want me for anything besides writing his essays."

Harry cocked an eyebrow, but shrugged his shoulders, "I'm not so sure, but he's definitely not your most ardent admirer right now. Krum has come on pretty strong pretty fast, hasn't he?"

"Not exactly. We've seen each other a few times before yesterday, and he's really quite eloquent when he's not worried about his accent. I really like him, Harry."

"I just never thought you would go for a guy like that. He's all muscle!"

"Harry, I know this may surprise you, but I understand Quidditch very well. Do you think the executor of a complicated feint would be wholly devoid of intelligence?"

"Hermione, does this mean that you think I'm smart because I'm a good seeker?"

Hermione laughed again at his teasing tone, but nodded. "I think it's a different kind of intelligence than what a lot of people acknowledge, but it's still impressive to me. And it is something which I think you and Krum share. It's tactical, it's cunning. I think it's part of what has saved you when we've been in such danger. You trust your instincts."

"Well, I'm flattered that you've compared me to the greatest seeker of our age. Still, even I know Quidditch isn't everything. This guy has a reputation, Hermione. And so does his school. He's clearly Karkaroff's pet."

"No Harry, you've got it wrong. Karkaroff took him and he does have a lot of power over him, but Viktor abhors him. He has ruined his life. I'm not sure that he would want me to tell you much more, but you and he have a lot in common when it comes to childhoods. I feel so childish when I think of how happy my life has been compared to his. He says that there are increasing restrictions on muggle-borns in the east, and that Karkaroff is in charge of it. It doesn't sound good, Harry. It makes me suspicious. I feel like a new movement is growing, what with the death eaters at the world cup, and now, hearing about what they do to them. And you've seen the Slytherins, strutting about this year and cavorting with Durmstrang."

"I don't understand. Hermione, if you think Durmstrang is dangerous, why are you with Krum? I mean, he sounds like a nice guy, but you don't want to get mixed up in that."

"Harry, we can help him. He's trapped by their prejudices, he can't speak out or they'll hurt his—his family. Whatever power Durmstrang has, it's spreading."

"I don't think it's wise for you to let yourself get caught up in it. And, please don't hate me for saying this, but no matter how evil Karkaroff is, he's at least keeping him alive. I'm not sure he'd like to be liberated until he can make sure he gets out of this tournament alive. Besides, it's not just that. Ron told me you brought him back. I just want to know…I want to make sure you're being careful."

Harry's ears were red as he said the last, but he kept his eyes fixed on hers.

"Harry, do you have a problem with me having sex?"

At first the boy's blush deepened, and he stuttered, but then he seemed to gather his courage, and he plunged ahead.

"You're fifteen. He's an adult, now, and he's…well, he's a guy. I just—"

"Harry, has it ever occurred to you that I may want sex? That I may like it?"

"Hermione, stop! Of course it—no, I mean, not of course, I mean, I don't think—listen, I don't want you to give it up so easily, ok? I want you to make sure it's special, that he's good to you. A guy like that can have any girl he wants, and he may be used to ignoring their feelings. I. am. Trying. To. Be. Helpful."

"Ok. I'm sorry, I'm being difficult. I know you're just trying to be a good friend. But, believe me when I say, I will only do what I want to do. I hope you know me enough to know that. I take responsibility for whatever happens."

"Ok. Ok, I guess…I guess that's good."

They sat for a moment in silence, until Hermione suddenly kissed her friend on the cheek. He blushed again.

"What was that for?"

"I'm just so grateful that you came to talk to me. It's been so long since we could talk. How did you know I'd be in the library, anyway?"

"Honestly? I followed Krum."

Hermione sat still for a moment, puzzled, then realization suddenly dawned.

"He's here?"

"I thought you knew. He followed you, I guess. I was going to look for you in the common room, but I saw him slip in here, so I figured I'd find you. It's just a little bit creepy."

"Did you see where he went?"

"No. I lost him, and I was a little confused when I found you in here without him. Maybe he wasn't stalking you after all." He said the last with a grin, but there was concern in his eyes.

Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about Harry's revelation. If he knew where she was, why hadn't he come to her? Why hide in the shadows?

Harry glanced about him, then leaned toward her ear.

"Constant vigilance," he whispered forcefully, then returned her kiss on his cheek, lingering there a moment, and squeezed her hand. He pulled away, his gaze steady and serious.

"I agree that something is coming, Hermione. Something is always coming for the likes of us. We just have to make sure it doesn't have the element of surprise. Be careful." He rose quickly, then called a, "See you in the common room!" over his shoulder as he left.

The ancient silence of the library settled around Hermione once more, but now she felt it was full of whispers, hundreds of years of secrets trapped between the pages in that great labyrinth of knowledge. Would she find her tall, dark secret hiding amongst them? Or would she wait for it to find her? The rain that had been threatening all day suddenly started, lashing the window and filling the silence with its sound. She could not read any longer, and made her way to return it from the dusty shelf she had pulled it from. She could just leave it where she sat, but she hated the idea of the library-elves doing anything for her. Sections of the library were older than others, and her book was one which only magic had prevented from disintegration. The rain seemed louder as she drew closer, the ancient texts sighing as they stirred in their slumber. When she reached the end of the row, she saw something that made her drop her book for a second time. It was Viktor, but not like she knew him. His face was contorted in some sort of strain, he looked like he was struggling to breathe, but he was drawing in air with ragged gasps. His muscular arms were tensed, fists balled in his hair, and he was crouched against the wall. She called his name, quietly, frightened of what was happening to him, what it might make him do. He looked like a caged animal. His eyes, when they found her, were fierce, dark, and distant. He took a few steps toward her, and then collapsed to his knees. She ran to him, but he pushed her roughly away, still gasping.

"Viktor, God, what's wrong? What is happening?"

She felt like crying, but she was too scared. The knowledge that he might be in danger was almost worse than the knowledge that she might be, but both considerations had her paralyzed. He stood so fast she only realized he was no longer kneeling when she was gasping for air behind the big hand he had pressed over her mouth. Cold eyes, strong hands, the whip and roar of rain, and the heavy pounding of her heart were the only sensations working in Hermione's mind. His head suddenly jerked back, as if he was preparing for a backflip. He threw himself from her, and she sank heavily to the floor, still unable to make a sound. Before she could gather herself, he lunged for her again. If there had been anyone in the library, the might have heard her muffled scream before he covered her mouth again. But no one came running when he pressed her against the shelves, when she kicked out and dislodged ancient texts from their resting places. _Constant vigilance_ snaked itself mockingly through her mind when she felt his hardness press on her leg and her soft, cotton panties rip as they were torn away. No one heard the slip of a zipper which sounded so painfully loud in her ears, no one heard the sound of her teardrops falling swiftly on the dusty floor. Her body began to release its tension, accepting defeat, and her mind finally responded to her calls for help.

_Viktor! VIKTOR! IT'S NOT YOU! VIKTOR, VIKTOR! STOP! HELP!_ She stared into Viktor's eyes, and she called for him. She felt the power of her mind meet and mingle with the searing might of her magic, and she struck wildly into Viktor's mind. She was untrained, but her connection with Viktor was strong. Someone did hear his strangled cry as he dropped her, coughing and weeping, onto the floor. They heard, and they laughed.

"How very disappointing. _Petrificus totalus_. Yes, I'd rather hoped for a better show, my dear boy. That would make your little mudblood good for something. Still, at least now we know your limits." Despite her paralyzed state, Hermione was able to send Karkaroff a look of utter loathing. She held his gaze as he bent to examine her, his discolored teeth forming into that sickly smile.

"Oh, don't be like dat, my pretty little whore. You have your uses. It could have been vorse. I had considered making him cut off your fingers. And, as you see, he is not so easily controlled. Hm, vell, better luck next time, as they say? _Obliviate_." The spell took its toll.

Hermione was cold and sore. She felt so stupid, seeing the pile of books some idiot had left in the middle of the walkway. The light was very dim, because of the rain, but she found it rather odd that she had tripped backward like that. She didn't even remember dropping her book.

"Miss Granger! Well, this is very unlike you. You know it is after the hours one usually finds students in the library. I'm glad that I found you, the others are waiting. We must prepare you for the second task. Oh, dear, have you hurt yourself?"

She considered herself lucky that McGonagall was not going to deduct house points for being out after hours, so she replied in the negative.

"Good, then come along."

She did not have much time to ponder her strange accident in the library. Soon, she was blissfully asleep and tucked deep in the waters of the lake.

**Hope you like it so far, please do review if you think I should continue.**


End file.
